monday pine; matty healy.

gigs, fiddles and curly haired boys.

A rusty, black guitar case hangs off my back, the old strap too stubborn to fall apart despite its seven years of wearing thin. The streets of Conrad are familiar, as is the smell in the air; a mix of cigarettes and beer from the nearby pub and my headed destination. What little of the nightlife inhibits the town on Fridays is alive and evident and it wants to be seen, by all, by everyone. Families rush home from the small supermarket down town, teens try to get into the less-dodgy clubs, and adults leave their kids at home with their next door neighbours and attempt to fit in with the latest generation in hopes of preserving what little of their youths remain. And here I am, walking down the street in worn out boyfriend jeans that I stole from my mother before I left France, with a second-hand Jimi Hendrix top covering my torso and sporting double denim with a dark jacket to avoid rubbing from my guitar case strap.

As I near the venue I can hear the first band already playing and it makes me smile. I smile because no one in there cares what genre the band is (hell, I doubt they could even give the band's genre a name), they're just there to enjoy their Friday night with dancing and a few drinks with old friends, new friends, current friends, colleagues and some alone. I look down at my shoes and notice the white paint scattered in messy spots from previous painting activities before I remembered my plans for the night. Rushing and looking down at my feet, I manage to bump into a boy who shows off his long, brown curls and is deep in conversation with two others who don't look much different. We bump shoulders, looking back at each other, pausing, smiling and apologising before rushing off in our own directions. It's strange to think that out of the 2,000 people in Conrad I've never before bumped shoulders with the boy with dark curls. I wish it would have been under better circumstances that I could ask him where he was from, what his business is here and whether he plans to stay. Not many people stay for long, never finding it worth it.

Two years here feels like ten when you learn the clerk at the supermarket's name and the lady six houses down leaves her kids with you during the day when she gets called into work. Time seems to pass evidently when you reside in a small town, friends at your doorstep and the next. You kind of wish to move on to the next small town, stay two years and move on to the next in search of new adventure, diversity, experience and change.

Nothing's changed at the venue. I still squeeze my way through the crowd and to the tiny greenroom I've grown so used to over such a short amount of time. I still place my guitar case down in the same place as I greet Jamie and Camille, Ruby and Derek and whoever else is there that I remember the names of but come as a blur throughout my attempt to politely hug and smile at everyone.

"There's been a slight change of plans," Jamie explains, "There's a band on before you, Monday Pine, they're pretty cool, we heard them sound check earlier. I think they're up from Colorado or California?"

Ruby nods in agreement as Derek tilts his beer a little and I shrug, not too bothered.

"That's cool, have you played yet?"

They shake their heads, "We're next. Gotta go set up now."

Camille is sat on the small couch that Ruby's mum placed in the greenroom just for us. She's strumming Derek's guitar which he takes from her as her playing gets louder. Camille's fiddle doesn't sit on the space beside her for long. With the absence of Derek's guitar, she takes to her own instrument and moves her hands in an incredible pattern which I'm yet to understand. I sit beside her and bring my knees to my chest and listen to her mess around on her instrument with her warm ups. I am so content sitting here that I don't move for a while longer. My head rests on my knees as I watch her eyes concentrate on the strings, her movements more precise with each stroke.